The Hero In the Manger
As my daughter and I read about Aung San Suu Kyi — the State Counsellor Of Myanmar — my daughter said, “She doesn’t sound like a hero, but she was a protestor, so she must be a hero!”
When children ask you to explain things, you realize how little you actually know. Like so many people, Aung San Suu Kyi is neither a hero nor a villain. She fought for peace in her country and lead Myanmar from a military state to a partial democracy. But her silence — and potentially her collaboration — with the genocide of the Ryangho people is villainous.
But how do you explain that people cannot be reduced to fairytale notions to a four-year-old when most adults cannot comprehend the nuances of narratives themselves?
Grace In the Time of Pandemic
As a parent and a teacher—college classes, private music lessons, homeschooling—this pandemic has brought me to the end of myself many times.
The end of my patience, the end of my endurance, the end of my tolerance for twitchy tweens, and the new routine of a husband working from home, the end of my brainpower and the ability to manage all of my tasks. The end of my ability to help when I see my students struggling, losing family members to COVID, nearing homelessness because they or their family have lost work, doing homework while quarantined in their parents’ basement, battling loneliness. I can’t sit in a room with them, hug them, or hand them a tissue for their tears.
Choose Joy
As I was scrolling through Facebook, I saw another post that dripped with racism. I immediately began typing out a reply. My reply was well reasoned and without love.
My response, which luckily I did not send, was fueled by rage.
Professor Kenneth V. Hardy, writes, "Rage builds over time as a result of cumulative suppressed emotions precipitated by voicelessness.” I don't think I can claim that I am voiceless, but my rage has been building as the continual onslaught of evil rubs against my raw emotions.
Blessed Are the Peace Makers
As I clutched my phone, watching twitter give me the latest updates of the election, I got a text, “Check out this post!”
I abandoned my Twitter feed to switch over to Facebook. A Christian leader, wrote an incendiary comment, equating counting votes with destructive evil.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I made the mistake of scrolling through the comments. Christians were agreeing with his statements. Comments about how the election was being stolen and that mail-in-ballots are illegal followed his comment.
Get Out of the Boat and Fail
I felt the heat rushing up my neck. She yelled at me for crying. She said that my tears had derailed the conversation.
Her words smacked into my chest, leaving me gasping for air. A few years ago, as a senior in college, I had begun learning about systematic racism. My journey led me to study my responsibility as someone who both benefits and is complicit in the systematic racism.
In my mind, I had become an alley — even teaching others about White supremacy and racism. I boasted about an award I had won earlier that year for my efforts.
Dusting Off My Canvas
I once told someone my two pallets of choice are words and food. My canvas, then, takes the shape of a blank page of paper and a mixing bowl or copper pot. My studio a table in the corner of my living room, the swing on my front porch, or my cozy nook of a kitchen. My mediums either the clatter of keys on a keyboard or strokes of ink on the page, then again its flour on a countertop or the sizzle of butter and garlic in a pan. Perhaps here my two pallets collide as I attempt a multisensory stunt. Combining the sight and sound of words on a page with the scents and tastes of ingredients in a bowl, I desire to convey what being present has looked like for me in this season.
Too Angry to Trust
As an avid consumer of news, I was aware of the coronavirus in early January, but overnight, the news of the virus went from a prayer request to a crisis that upended our lives. I wasn’t prepared.
Like most of America, overnight, I went into action to try to figure out what normal would look like when we were all forced to stay home.
I changed plans, created new rhythms trying to figure out how to work with two kids at home. As a family, we started giving to the food bank signed up to help get handmade masks and even organized neighborhood and church activities that we could do while practicing social distancing. Despite staying busy, I couldn’t hide my anger.
Becoming a Disciple Through Scripture
I sat in front of a sorority woman, determined to inspire her to lead a bible study in her chapter. I pulled out the story of the paralytic man. We read the story, observed it, and began to interpret what it would have meant to the original hearers.
Teary-eyed, she said, “I need to stop sleeping with my boyfriend.”
I scanned the passage. I reread it. I had prepared multiple questions about the text that would help us to see that Jesus chose to heal the paralytic man because of the four men’s faith and that he had the authority to heal the body to forgive sins. My questions were carefully crafted to lead us into the application that our faith could heal our friends and we could use a bible study to bring people to Jesus' feet.
My Calling
Every night, I sneak into my daughter's room to kiss and pray for her. I find her twisted into an unnatural position, with her stuffed animals neatly lined up at the bottom of her bed.
This scene perfectly sums up her personality. She is feisty and uncontrollable. But she is also thoughtful. She draws pictures for her sick friends, loves to give food and money to the homeless, and is continually handing me toys to give to other children. I love being a mom, I adore my daughter, and I love watching her grow into the person God is forming her to be.
But I’m not called to be a mother.
Discipleship: Learning to Follow
God is also inviting us on a wild adventure that will transform us if we follow him.
I grew up in the church. I knew all about God, attended the right events, and could answer all the bible questions correctly. At sixteen, I realized that there was something different between my Christian friends and me. When I asked, a friend hypothesized that I needed to “give my life to Christ.” I copied her in saying a prayer. But nothing happened.
My life was the same. I still faked religion. I gave an hour on Sunday to attend a Bible Study. But the rest of my life looked exactly the same.